Guns & Wands
by Likhari
Summary: John Wick has killed his way through the American underworld, acquiring several names for himself - Baba Yaga, The Boogeyman, The Devil. But what will happen when he comes across another man with no dearth of epithets? John Wick and The-Boy-Who-Lived face off against each other as a sinister entity lurks in the shadows, and wants to destroy magical Britain.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and world created by JK Rowling. John Wick and world belongs to Summit entertainment and associated parties. I'm just borrowing the characters. Anything you do not ****recognize**** is my own creation, including few OCs. This fic is for pleasure only, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

_"The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death"_

**Prologue:**

**Manhattan, New York **

His first target wore a suit which went out of fashion seven decades ago. The man stumbled out of the lift and took a deep breath, as if he had just survived death. He brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder and then walked towards the exit.

John Wick, assassin, put down the newspaper he was pretending to read and followed.

Outside, the sun was directly overhead, providing a measure of relief against the first chilly winds of the season. New York city was always beautiful in the early winters and this year was no different. The trees in Central Park had started to shed their leaves, people were out in large numbers to enjoy what could be last of the few sunny days before snows arrived, and children yelled and shouted at a birthday party in the playground.

The man took the 5th Ave. and turned left. He kept his face up enjoying the sunlight and his hands in his pockets. He had wispy brown hair on top of his round head and a pencil thin moustache, making him look like a mouse. Judging from the strain of his shirt against the pants, he must have recently gained weight. John followed twenty steps behind, his gun brushing assuredly against his ribs. He received a few looks. Few people wore ties on a Sunday and even if they did, they didn't have the air of "don't fuck with me" as John had.

His target consulted a piece of paper, nodded to himself, crossed the street and entered Elmo Beer Café. The door and windows of the café seemed to shimmer in the bright sunlight.

John waited on the opposite side, looking around. He didn't see anything suspicious; people went about their work, no police cars, and no unmarked vans. After the last attempt to capture him, he wasn't taking chances and this job reeked of something rotten. The client refused to meet in person, paid in strange gold coins, gave next to nothing information about the targets, and scared Winston enough that he called John, pulling him off another job.

Nothing scared Winston.

John opened the café door and a small bell tinkered. He waited a bit at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and taking stock of the establishment. It comprised of a long room with a low ceiling. It had a bar to his right and booths with cushioned seats and tables to his left. Low wooden walls separated the booths, and the walls were peppered with posters of Hollywood icons and people in some sort of sports jersey. Soft music played in the background and the few patrons talked softly over their beer mugs. The place felt cozy, someplace where you can drown your sorrows in alcohol.

John sat on a bar stool, directly opposite to his quarry, and ordered a mug of the in-house beer. He never drank on the job but he'd look out of place in here without ordering. The bartender, a thin man with red beard, gave him a nod and went to fetch his drink.

From the mirror above the bar, John saw that his target was having a heated discussion with another man. His second target. Sharp jaw, body like a powerlifter, thin lips, and a face full of scars. Just from looking at him, John could tell that the man was a killer. His eyes were cold and the grimace adorning his face could have sent most people scrambling for cover. Even in the picture, which was shared by the client, the man had been snarling.

John sipped his beer (superb taste!) quietly and tried to listen in to their conversation. It wasn't easy. Though they didn't seem to be whispering, judging by their body language, he couldn't hear a word. So, he started lip reading. Through the mirror which inverted the images.

"…not happy. I have to be back by tonight and present my report to the Dark Lord," First target was saying, an ugly look on his face. He feared this 'Dark Lord'.

"Any chance of breaking in to the DoM?" the large man asked.

"Suicide would be an easier option. After the fall of Voldemort, the British have really tightened their ship and gave the reigns to Harry fucking Potter."

"So? He is just a kid. Not older than twenty, I guess. We can take him."

"He was seventeen when he defeated Voldemort. Do you really want to go wand to wand with a wizard who killed that snake? Are you that stupid?"

The large man growled. He took a huge swig of his beer and muttered what seemed like profanities.

John straightened a bit. The mouse man had used the word 'Wizard'. Volshebnik. Memories of his granny telling stories of men who flew on brooms and fought with dragons came unbidden. He shook his head and tried to focus again on the conversation.

"Beer too much for you, bud?" the bartender asked, mistaking his actions for that of a drunk man.

"No," John replied. "It does have a kick but nothing life threatening."

The bartender went back to cleaning glasses, and John finished his drink. He sensed more than saw his targets staring at him. When he looked at them in the mirror, the mouse man whispered something to the large man, throwing his head towards John. In his line of business, John had learnt an important lesson. Never dismiss a gut feeling. His brain screamed at him to move or be killed, and he obliged.

A second later, the stool he was sitting on shattered, throwing the wooden splinters in the air like a geyser.

John rolled to a stop, his gun appearing in his hand by years of practice, and shot two times.

In his life as an assassin, John had missed a grand total of three times, over the course of over a hundred jobs. Here, he missed both shots. The mouse man shouted, "_Protego"_ and waved a small stick in the air, and the bullet pinged off a shimmering blue glass in front of his face. The large man simply twisted at his waist, the bullet slipping past him. He popped his knuckles and took a step forward.

John shot him three more times in the chest, in the space of seconds, and moved to his right, taking aim at the mouse man, who raised his stick again.

_"Expelliarmus_," he shouted. John saw red light emanate from the stick and something pull the gun from his hand, throwing it against the wall. Next wave of the stick and John was blown off his feet. He landed with a painful thud, his breath stuck somewhere in his upper chest.

"So, why have you been following me, arsehole?" he asked. "Get up, ya mutt," he nudged the fallen man with the toe end of his boot.

John pulled a small knife from his boot and threw it at the mouse man who wasn't expecting such an attack.

The knife lodged to the hilt into his right thigh and elicited a shrill scream. "Bloody kill you, you fuckin' muggle," the man yelled, his accent taking on a strong British tint due to the pain.

John barely had the time to pull out his Glock and line his shot when the large man, with a blood stained shirt, stepped in front of him. "I am gonna enjoy making mincemeat out of you, asshole," he said in a southern drawl. The blood seeping from his chest seemed to bother him only a little.

"What in the name of…?" John muttered, scrambling back. The large man wasn't wearing any bulletproof vest, as evident from the blood, so why wasn't he dead yet? Strength enhancing drugs? It wasn't uncommon in the underworld. They also had the side effect of numbing the pain receptors in the human body.

John pulled out a flat disk out of his pocket. It was half the size of his palm and had a yellow button in the middle. Thank the gods for his paranoia. He had packed extra tools for this job. He pressed the yellow button twice and threw it at the large man who caught it in a fist easily the size of John's head.

"What is this supposed to…" he stopped talking and howled in pain as the disk discharged a 220 mA of current. It was sufficient to incite cardiac arrest in a healthy, grown man. John's opponent, however, merely went to his knees and groaned. His hair was singed and his clothes smoked, but he seemed alive.

John shot at the mouse man who was trying to raise his stick again, causing him to create that blue shield again. He dropped to his knees and shot two rounds at the knees, the shield only came till the navel. Mouse man yelled in pain and went down like a sack of dirt. John jumped to the large man, forced his mouth open, and put his gun inside.

"Sweet dreams," he said, pulling the trigger twice.

The man's head burst like a melon. John dropped him and turned his attention to the mouse man, who was yelling and cursing, his stick on the ground, forgotten. John picked it up. It was warm and caused the hair on his arm to stand up. He pocketed it and loomed over the mouse man like a specter of death.

"What the bloody hell do you want?" Mouse man's face was coated in sweat, though he didn't bleed as much as any other man whose both knee caps were popped. "You have no idea what my people are going to do to you."

John knelt and put the gun under the man's jaw. "They will not be able to do more than what you attempted," he said, and pulled the trigger.

Once John stood up, he noticed that there were still people in the café. One man was sitting in the corner of his booth, trying to merge in the wall, while two men cowered under their table. The bartender stood silent, holding a wired telephone. So, the police were on their way.

John gave the bartender a small nod, placed a twenty on the counter and walked out.

As he turned around the street to go back to his car, he looked back and saw two men, holding sticks, standing guard at the door of the café while another man walked in. John patted the stick in his pocket and sighed.

He needed some fucking answers. And a bottle of The Continental's finest whiskey.


	2. Answers & Questions

**Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and worlds owned by their creators. Anything you do not recognize from John Wick or Harry Potter universe is my own creation, including few non-canon characters and ideas. This fic is for pleasure only, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

A/N: This story is John Wick AU and takes place after the first movie. For the purpose of this story, the events of John Wick 1 happened in 2001, three years after the Battle of Hogwarts.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Answers & Questions**

The Continental hotel, New York branch, stood at the junction of Beaver St and Pearl St, jutting out like a huge beast whose advance was stopped by the tall buildings around it. John parked the mustang by the gate and a wide-eyed valet, with a hidden gun holster, took the keys. Walking inside the softly lit lobby, John nodded to a fellow assassin who was carrying out a long, rectangular suitcase. Its dimensions suggested a sniper rifle; either a Savage or a Ruger.

Marcus.

The name came barreling out of John's memories and he sighed, taking in a deep breath. Marcus had been more than a mentor. He had been a friend and had used Ruger with a level of skill unmatched by anyone in the underworld. His death still irked him, causing pain in the deep dark hole of his heart which swallowed people who loved him and tried to help. How many friends did he have left? Only one, Winston, and that too if John considered talking once a year as friendship.

The concierge, Charon, a tall, bald man, smiled at him and gave a respectful nod. "Good to see you, again, Mr. Wick. We have been expecting you," he said in a pleasant voice, each word rolling after the other like the notes in a symphony.

Maybe two friends.

"Where is Winston?"

"Occupied with urgent work, Mr. Wick. He has asked for you to join him for dinner, tonight. We have a room prepared, sir." Charon pulled a key from under the desk.

John put two gold coins on the counter.

Charon raised a delicate eyebrow. "For you, sir, the price is only one gold coin for the room."

"I know. Send a bottle of your finest single malt," John said, picking up the key and walking to the lifts.

The room was a suite on the tenth floor and had windows with glass thick enough to drown the noise of traffic. John placed the dead man's wand and his guns and knives in a desk drawer and stepped in the shower. The hot water soothed his back muscles which had ached ever since he had been thrown across the bar. The blow had also bestowed a bruise on his chest, though it didn't seem too serious and would heal soon.

Bits and pieces of the conversation he had heard ran around in his head, conjuring images of fairies, elves, and fire breathing dragons. Five. It had taken five bullets to kill his second target, and John had made the man eat two of them. _Kill the targets in the bar itself_. The mission had been clear if not suicidal. He had left witnesses behind. A city employed sketch artist would be giving finishing touches to his face right about now.

But this was not the first time he had had to kill someone in broad daylight. Someone, usually from the Continental or the High Table, would meet the witnesses and buy their silence. John would ask for the overhead to be paid by the client. It was their stupid rule, after all, to not worry about witnesses. Helen would have chided him for worrying too much.

A fresh bout of grief seized his muscles and he clenched his fists hard enough to draw blood as images of his dead wife wrapped in a towel and stepping out of the shower danced behind his closed eyes. After the pain, came her voice and laughter. Helen in a white dress, walking the aisle, looking like a million fulfilled dreams. Helen saying 'I do', a hint of laughter tugging at her lips. John embraced the pain and the love at the same time, head bowed and lost in memories.

When he came out, a bottle of Balvenie DoubleWood with ice and complimentary snacks had been delivered to his room. Dressed in a bathrobe, he poured himself three fingers of the golden liquid and sat down in front of the computer terminal. The Continental provided its guests with an untraceable server link which connected to the world wide web, without any fear of tracking or viruses. John opened a search engine and wondered about what to type, his fingers hovering centimeters above the keyboard.

Thinking a human name sounded less stupid than wizards and spells, he typed Harry Potter and hit the search icon.

Immediately, hundreds of search results were returned. A private contractor with the British Home Office, a school kid who won first prize in a club level science quiz, a couple who died in a fiery car crash in 1981, and few more people, mostly in England. It seemed to be a popular surname across the pond. After that none of the results had the first name as Harry.

John scratched his beard and took another sip. This was to be expected. If his targets were spies or criminals with ridiculously advanced weaponry, they wouldn't be listed on the internet or the yellow pages.

Feeling a bit foolish, he typed in 'wizards'. Again, hundreds of results were returned, most of them about fiction stories or fairy tales. After scrolling through a few dozen pages, he came across a site devoted to conspiracy theories. In it, the author had mentioned the existence of a magical society in the world which hides itself using dark magic. It also mentioned mythical creatures like sphinxes and mermaids. When the article went too far the deep hole, talking about blood sacrifices and cannibalism, John closed the page.

He picked up the dead man's stick and examined it. It was nine inches of wood; a pointy end and a broad base with a soft leather grip. It was rigid and had signs of wear and tear. Just holding it, John could feel something thrum inside his chest as if responding to a primitive drum beat. He raised it above his head and, feeling like an idiot and thankful that no one could see him, brought it down like a sword.

Nothing happened.

John let out a small chuckle. The stick also seemed to be laughing at his stupidity. Of course, it wasn't a magic wand. John ran his fingers on the worn but smooth surface looking for some latch or button to activate what was clearly a piece of advanced, experimental weaponry.

He finished two more drinks. The scotch had started to make him dizzy and he welcomed the sensation. Helen would soon follow, and he was ready to embrace her. He lied down and closed his eyes.

* * *

Winston sat in his favorite table in the private dining hall of the Continental. The soft leather sofas contrasted against the yellow light, making the place look smaller than it was. Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3 played softly on the speakers. All the other tables were empty which wasn't a surprise. Winston often made sure the hall was empty when he wanted to discuss business, and John had many questions.

"Hello, Winston," he said, sitting down on the opposite chair.

"Hello, Jonathan," Winston said in a gravelly voice. "Try the duck. Chef's special."

Winston was a lean man, well into his 70s, with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. Running the Continental, where the entirety of the assassin community stayed while in New York, wasn't an easy task but Winston pulled it off with flair and aplomb. So, it surprised John to hear the tremor in his voice but chose to say nothing. They ate silently for a while, the only noise being clink of forks and knives. The duck was indeed delicious and the accompanying wine had a slightly sour taste which complemented well with the spices. John finished his portion and leaned back, ignoring his second wine glass.

"What's eating you, Jonathan?" Winston asked.

"This job," John said. "Who's the client? I have some questions for them."

Winston wiped his mouth with a table cloth and looked up. It was then John noticed that he looked pale and there was sweat on his eyebrows. Even his hands shook a little as he placed the cloth back and picked his wine glass. His eyes were bloodshot. Then John remembered how afraid Winston had sounded on the phone. Something was scaring the owner of the Continental, an autonomous organization closely linked to the High Table. No agencies or governments in the world had that much power.

"You will soon meet her," Winston finally said. "I should warn you, though. Don't make eye contact with the woman."

John gaped at the strangest warning he had ever received from his old friend. He opened his mouth to ask but Winston raised a hand, shaking his head.

"Don't ask. I can't really explain it to you without sounding like a lunatic but heed my words. It is possible that she will answer all your questions but be polite, well, as much as you can be, and listen more than talk."

"Did she threaten you, Winston?" John asked. "Why are you so scared of this woman?"

Winston sighed. A single action which made him look far older than John knew him to be. The lines on his face were more evident and the shadow under his eyes spoke of a troubled mind.

"She did something, John. It was as if she was inside my head and talking to my thoughts rather than my words. By the end of the conversation, I was shaking like a leaf. I fear her and whatever the High Table is up to. Yes, my friend, our latest client has been sent by the blessings of the Elder itself."

"Is it an Adjudicator?"

"Ha, you must be joking, Mr. Wick. The last time Adjudicators were sent to do an important task was in the eighties. They were remnants of an old world and as such have been replaced. We are The Inquisitors."

John turned to face the new arrival. The woman was thin with bright silvery eyes. He couldn't place her age, though she seemed to be somewhere between forty and fifty. Her cheeks were pinched giving her face a skull-like appearance with full lips and raven black hair. She wore an expensive suit beneath a long overcoat. She looked like a strict librarian who'd kill if you returned the book a day late.

As she sat on the remaining chair, John saw three men take a table by the exit door. The same men who had entered the beer café after the shootout. His left hand found the solace of his gun.

"John Wick," John nodded at her. "Nice to meet you."

"So polite," she laughed. It wasn't the high pitched cackling John had been imagining she'd possess. "Yet, so lethal. I, for one, was particularly impressed by your handiwork this afternoon, Mr. Wick. Pray tell, what did you feel when you picked up the wand?" She asked, ignoring Winston who seemed to be glad at not being asked to converse.

"I wasn't aware you were watching."

"Oh, I wasn't. I saw the whole thing later through the eyes of the bartender," she said, leaving John confused. She shrugged. "We have a lot to discuss, Mr. Wick. Winston, it would be better if we have a little more wine."

Winston nodded, looking everywhere but at her, and snapped twice. A door on the far side opened and a waiter entered bearing a tray and two bottles with extra glasses. Once he was gone, Winston poured a drink for each of them.

"So, you had questions, Mr. Wick? Oh, don't look so surprised. I was listening in. It is one of my many flaws which, I am repeatedly told, makes me more endearing," she smiled.

"What's your name?" John asked. He heard Winston's sharp intake of breath. The Inquisitor, however, gave a polite shake of the head.

"Wrong question, Mr. Wick. It is not pertinent at all to our situation. Let me provide you with the questions you don't even know to ask," she said and upended her glass on the floor. The red wine mixed with the carpet, spreading like blood. She pulled a wand, quite similar to the one John had in his room, and waved it in the air.

The wine on the carpet vanished. Her glass was filled again to the brink, and so was the open bottle. John watched all this with a thin mouth, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Winston was rubbing his eyes as if to get rid of a lingering dream. The Inquisitor placed the tip of her wand against John's glass. It exploded, showering all three of them. She waved the wand, again, vanished the mess, and with a flick repaired John's glass to its pristine condition.

"Now, Mr. Wick," she said, in a smug voice. "Ask your first question."

John swallowed. "Are you a wizard?"

"Witch, actually. Wizards are male and stupid. Add magic to the mix and the results are not pretty. Apologies for answering your second question in advance, but yes. It was real magic which I just performed and not the kind where a man in top hat pulls handkerchiefs out of his mouth and people clap like buffoons."

"Who were the targets? Were they wizards as well?"

"Ha, they wished. One was an abomination. A squib turned rabid dog bred solely for war. A beast that should have been put down swiftly and with no mercy, as you so kindly did. Squibs are children of magical parents with little to no affinity for magic themselves. The second man was indeed a wizard but he was nothing more than a lowly thug. As to why they were targeted? They worked for a wizard named Logan Knightbridge whom the High Table has declared an enemy. Officially, we are at war." She slid a picture of a young man across the table.

He didn't look like a wizard. In fact, John would have mistaken him for an underpaid accountant if they had met on the street. Logan wore a white shirt with a plaid necktie and a cream overcoat. He had an oval face underneath a mess of disheveled black hair. Only his eyes, vibrant blue, seemed alive even through the photograph.

"The High Table is at war with a single person?" John asked, disbelief evident. "What did he do? Killed an entire crime family?"

"Worse. He killed two."

"The Sicilians and The Corsicans," Winston breathed. "There have been rumors since last year that two families killed each other in a bloodbath."

"Every rumor is rooted in truth, somewhere. It was a bloodbath but not made with guns or bombs. Logan went biblical on them; beheaded a few, reduced others to pieces, trapped two of them in blocks of ice, burnt down their houses, and a select few were served as live dinner for locusts," she spoke with a hint of reverence in her voice, as if she approved of the skill and brutality.

"Not even one of them managed to take a shot?"

She shrugged. "They tried, for sure. We found loads of bullet casings, few unsheathed knives. What you should understand Mr. Wick is that a powerful wizard can kill a room full of gun-wielding humans before they even realize he is a threat. Logan, whom I have met on a couple of occasions, absolutely reeks of power, with a ruthless streak. I am not being modest when I say that there is hardly any single witch or wizard who can match him in terms of power and skill.

"His actions have angered the High Table and the Elder. Logan's organization, per our last report, has more than twenty wizards and around fifty humans/squibs. He has been recruiting aggressively and we think it's better to stop him now itself before he becomes a legitimate threat to the High Table."

"So, the High Table wants me to kill Logan?" John asked. He had a feeling that she was not telling him the entire truth. Considering who she worked for, he should have expected it.

"Perceptive," she smiled. "What happened today was a test, Mr. Wick, and you passed with flying colors. However, you will not be working alone. Four more assassins, handpicked by me, and you will form a team, along with a unit of the Inquisitors. Your job: hunt down Logan, bringing down his organization in the process."

John leaned back, absorbing the information. A part of his mind was telling him that he had been lucky in the morning. If what the Inquisitor told was true, a better wizard would have blown him to smithereens. Now, the High Table wanted him to hunt these people down who can, apparently, create wine out of thin air. Thinking of the magic he had seen till now, a question popped in his mind.

"You said you saw the fight through the bartender's eyes. What does that mean?"

The Inquisitor pointed to one of her men. "Manthar was kind enough to fetch the memories from the bartender's brain for my viewing pleasure. He also made sure the witnesses forget everything they had seen by erasing their memories."

She chuckled at John and Winston's stunned expressions. "Don't fret, Mr. Wick. We will be teaching you all there is to learn about our enemies. You will also have magical help. My people are working on creating charmed objects, protections, and such to give you an edge. So, grab your toothbrush, pack your bags, we are going on an adventure." She clapped and stood up. Her acolytes also rose to their feet.

The Inquisitor was almost at the door when John spoke up. "You didn't say where we are going?"

She turned and flashed a brilliant smile. "England, Mr. Wick. Home to the largest magical population in Europe and the current hiding place of Logan Knightbridge."

John and Winston sat for a long time after the Inquisitor left. Neither looked at the other or spoke, both lost in their own thoughts. After the waiter came and cleared the table, John spoke. "Is there any way I can get out of this assignment?"

Winston didn't lookup. John knocked on the table to get his attention and repeated his question.

"I, I honestly don't know, Jonathan. You swore a blood oath to the High Table in my very own presence. Your retirement ended the moment you killed Iosef and Viggo. You can't just back off now. They will come for you before they go for this Logan."

"Do you think it's all true? What she said," he asked.

Winston closed his eyes, his hands joined as if in prayer. "You saw what she did. I am assuming your targets did something similar. We may not want to believe it, Jonathan, but the world is larger than mere guns and bullets. And now it has magic as well. Regardless of what you decide, my only advice is to play to your strengths."

John thought about Helen. She had loved magic. During the early days of her illness, when she was bedridden, she had watched magic shows on a loop and tried to learn card tricks. She would have gasped in wonder and childish delight if she'd heard about John's day.

John's _magical_ day.

Magic, as in witches, wands, spells, beasts, and ghosts.

Ghosts. Dead people.

Helen.

John got up in a daze, a single thought running in his entire mind. "Excuse me, Winston, but I need to pack."

* * *

In an old manor, in Wiltshire, England, a weary and beaten man attempted to drink himself to death. His pale, pointed face was unwashed, his blond hair in disarray. His eyes had shadows underneath which took away any semblance of beauty from the once-proud man. He used to take great care of his appearance. Now, with his house arrest and the death of his ideals and friends, he saw no point in it. It wasn't as if the minister of magic would come calling begging for advice or money. Or both.

Where had it gone so wrong?

Lucius Malfoy couldn't really put the blame on Potter or that dead old fool, Dumbledore; thank Merlin for small mercies. They did exactly what was expected from Mudblood lovers. In moments when Lucius felt brave, when he knew for certain that the Dark Lord would not return and punish him after reading his thoughts, he marveled at the sheer stupidity and cowardice his old master had shown in the end.

A gust of wind blew in from the open study window and ruffled the curtains. Lucius's breath hitched in his throat. Shaking with a fear which had permeated to his bones after numerous Cruciatus curses and a stint in Azkaban, he turned and sighed in relief.

An eagle owl sat at the window sill, an official-looking letter tied to its left leg.

Lucius stumbled to the window and with shaking hands, pried the letter of the owl's feet. The owl gave an indignant hoot and flew to sit on top of the study desk.

"So, you are to return with a reply, is it? Stupid bird," Lucius said. He was surprised at how tired and hoarse his voice sounded. Well, there was no one to bloody talk to, was there? His wife had moved to a different bedroom the moment trials ended and he was placed on house arrest. His son and daughter-in-law hardly spoke to him, their biggest interaction being on their wedding day. Only another creature to speak to him was the family's new house-elf. Lucius Malfoy, disgraced Death Eater and former lord of House Malfoy, would rather die than talk to a lowly elf.

Lucius turned his attention to the letter. The envelope was soft, yet sturdy, paper. The seal was in red and black; a longsword passed through a medieval shield with two guns on the sides. _Memento Mori_, in green ink, was written underneath. He pushed back the alcohol-induced fog with some effort and sat down. What in Merlin's name do these people want with him now? He ripped open the envelope and read the letter.

Anger bubbled inside Lucius.

After everything he had done, how dare they ask for another favor? Lucius made sure the Dark Lord's plans stayed on the island and not impact the continent, even risking his life sometimes to sway the madman. He bore the indignity of talking to muggles with a stoic face, all to uphold the oath his ancestors had made. But the oath never said anything about helping the High Table on the soil of England.

The High Table. Lucius remembered the sharp witch who had come to meet him the day he became the new Lord Malfoy. She was beautiful and deadly; he had seen the look of a ruthless killer. She had explained the existence of a league of muggle killers going as far back as the signing of the International Statute of Secrecy. What had surprised Lucius was that they had wizards and witches on the payroll. Dancing to the orders of the muggles. But, his ancestors had made the oath to help them in exchange for keeping the killers away from the wizarding world, and he had to fulfill it.

_Assist our team to your full capabilities_, the letter read.

The owl was looking at him, expectantly. The thought that his wayward son, who had abandoned him, would have to serve the muggles brought a smile to his face. He wrote his reply, signing it as the former lord of house Malfoy, and sent it.

Lucius poured himself another drink. Even if they didn't know any magic, the muggle killers should be good enough for a bit of Mudblood hunting. If only Lucius could play them right. The prospect was enticing. He suddenly felt like his old self – a chess grandmaster. Sitting back and moving pieces around for his own enjoyment.

He wondered who he will target first. The image of a dark, frizzy-haired Mudblood screaming in agony on the floor of Malfoy manor appeared before his eyes. He laughed, aloud. The sound was foreign to his ears but pleasant.


	3. First Blood

**Chapter 2: First Blood**

The old man stood at the threshold of his house and sniffed the air, and his eyes lit up with the promise of violence.

He looked at his guards, walking towards him across the grounds. Urik was busy devouring a blood-flavored lollipop, cheap imitation of real blood mixed with fruity flavors, and hadn't noticed their uninvited visitor. Pelo walked with a foolish grin on his face, no doubt looking forward to a night of drunken debauchery. Between them, they carried a wooden box which smelled of blood and decay. Youngsters, the old man sighed. Dreams of glory but survival instincts of a Cornish pixie.

No self-respecting vampire of his day would have missed a wizard's tell-tale magical signature or the sound of their obnoxious breathing. Mihnea cel Rău III, the direct descendant of Vlad Dracula, thought about his options. He thought about survival.

Urik was a coward and next to useless in a magical fight; Mihnea had converted him just a month back. Pelo had some skills, but Mihnea's three other guards, inside the house, were better. By the time they'd get off their backsides and come to him, though, they'd be surrounded by enemies. For Mihnea was certain that the aurors had finally found him.

Urik who hadn't noticed his master's reaction kept sucking on the sweet as if his life depended on it, but Pelo's ears prickled. He turned his head, staring directly into the trees just at the end of the property.

Why haven't they been attacked yet, Mihnea thought? There was no need to worry about noise or innocent bystanders. His house stood alone, surrounded by a grove of oak trees, and miles away from the nearest human habitation. He had to retreat to the woods, like those filthy canines, at the end of Voldemort's reign. The British ministry had deployed killers to hunt down any and every creature who had opposed them.

Mihnea sniffed the air, again, and a smile appeared on his face. It wasn't a team of aurors surrounding him, as he had expected. No, it seemed a single wizard had decided to test his mettle against a clan of vampires. Foolish confidence or superior indifference? Doesn't matter, he mused. Four against one, even for a powerful wizard, were odds bordering on lamb slaughter.

The wizard in the shadows laughed.

Mihnea straightened up. "Urik, Pelo," his voice was soft, smooth like silk, and low enough that a person standing ten feet away wouldn't have heard him. His guards did. "Look alive, children. Protect your liege against our enemy."

Urik's confused expression grated on Mihnea's dead nerves, but Pelo understood. He placed the heavy wooden box on the ground. Mihnea whistled softly. The guards inside the house will hear the sound and know they are needed.

Foolish confidence it is, he decided. Mihnea looked forward to watching his children tear apart the enemy. Kiriko and Vaughn rushed out. A small nod of his head to the left, and they made a beeline for the trees. Mihnea sat down on the front steps and pulled a blood-soaked liver from his robes. The blood, belonging to a drunk, wasn't as delicious but it'd have to do. Too dangerous, these days, to attack a human what with all the aurors roaming around the country, looking for vampires to hunt. So, they made do with beggars and orphans; people whom no one will miss. A human who walked into their nest, however? Well, that was just free a meal.

He took a large bite, savoring the blood flowing down his throat, and settled down to watch.

* * *

Logan Knightbridge stood in the shadow of an oak tree and watched as the two vampires entered the grounds. One of the guards, pointed face and black eyes, was sucking on a blood-flavored lollipop and hadn't noticed him. The second guard, short and ugly, had a foolish grin on his face. They carried between them a large box; large enough that a child could fit inside.

The old vampire, Mihnea cel Rău, third of his name, self-proclaimed direct descendant of Vlad Dracula, stood at the doorway, staring at him. He moved his head, not unlike a predator hunting for prey. His eyes settled on Logan and he bared his sharp fangs. Really? Domination tactics might have worked on werewolves, natural enemies of the vampires, and maybe even on a ministry hit squad. Logan just chuckled.

His laughter reached the vampire, raising his anger at having his dominion intruded. Mihnea whispered to his guards and started whistling. Urik and Pelo came at Logan. He waited, not reacting when two more vampires ran out of the house and joined the guards. He didn't move a muscle when they surrounded the thicket of trees he stood in. They were children when compared to long-lived vampires like Mihnea; they wouldn't have seen too many fights.

As per the Department of Magical Law Enforcement guidelines, the rules of engagement for vampires were simple: surround them and attack first. Don't let them settle or all your spells would be useless; how good would be a stunner if you couldn't hit the target. Vampires were difficult to hit. They were fast, strong as ten men, and had heightened senses: vision and hearing. All the attributes of apex predators. So, Logan had come prepared.

Despite the darkness of the cloudy night, he saw how the four vampires moved like pack animals, surrounding him. Even standing in the trees, he had heard Mihnea's command. His senses were on par with werewolves. The vampires were in for a nasty surprise.

There was a short pause as the vampires took stock of the soon-to-be battlefield. The uneven ground was wet after a light shower, and there was a chill in the air compounded by the wind blowing through the trees. No birds sang, no crickets chirped. The rustle of leaves in the darkness felt heavy and oppressing.

Urik and Pelo attacked first, from his left. Their bodies became blurs to normal vision but to Logan, they still moved at normal speed. He didn't bother with Urik; he was inexperienced judging from the way he moved. Pelo, though, looked like a fighter, and Logan targeted him. With a single thought a lance of ice formed in his hand. It flew fast and true, impaling Pelo through the chest and lodging in a tree. Urik sucked in a sharp breath and dived behind the nearest oak.

The two new vampires, a pale woman, and a red-haired man slowed down a bit, surprised at the reaction time of the wizard, as well as the display of wandless magic. The red-haired man pulled out a katana sword from his robes and swung it, with skill and experience. It shattered the next lance, but the force of the impact caused him to stumble back.

The woman bent her powerful legs and jumped, faster than human perception, her hands outstretched and aimed for Logan's neck. Logan's enhanced vision saw her coming, his mind mapped her trajectory and provided a defense strategy within the blink of an eye. He side-stepped her, bringing his arm up like a ringmaster. A rope of fire came into being, sizzling and scorching the air itself, wrapped around his hand. He brought it down like a whip, encircling the vampire's legs. Ignoring her howls of pain, Logan pulled at the lasso, effectively cutting the vampire in two pieces at her knees.

Logan heard a low snarl and squelch of a foot escaping the wet mud. He turned, going low, and swung the whip again. The red-haired vampire got a lash on his shoulder. He dropped the katana as his entire arm caught fire. Logan stepped up to him, fire discarded and his hands encased in ice gauntlets and punched the vampire. Despite his considerable magical prowess, there was something primeval about physical fights which Logan enjoyed immensely. Next punch was to the guts causing the vampire to double in pain. Logan kicked his legs and straddled him on the ground, hammering punches like a drill machine.

When he stood up, all that was left of the vampire's head resembled a smashed watermelon. Urik, who had hidden behind an oak, was nowhere to be seen while the woman, lying in a heap of blood soaked leaves, looked on in horrified silence.

Her eyes widened when Logan created a fire blade, its tip mere inches from her head. He enjoyed her fear for a moment and then stabbed her through the neck. Fire spread instantaneously, consuming her flesh, specks of ash floating upwards in a lazy manner. Logan did the same to the red-haired vampire.

Leaving their burning corpses behind, Logan addressed the man stuck to a tree. Pelo was alive but barely. Vampires could hold their breaths longer than most but they still needed to breathe and punctured lungs were detrimental to that. Pelo tried to move, pushing himself off the tree and sliding on the lance. Two more blades of ice went through his shoulders and he howled in pain.

"How many?" Logan stared into the black eyes of the vampire. "How many did you kill, tonight? Were any of them children?"

The vampire's blackened tongue rasped over sharp fangs as if seeking a last drop of blood before death, and his breath was ragged. "They are food. Nothing more, nothing less. You wouldn't blame a man for eating lamb, why should you blame us?"

Logan smiled. "Valid arguments, often parroted by vampires whenever they are caught. I am sure one day a lamb with a sword will rise and demand justice from humanity. Till then, I ask on behalf of humans. How many?"

Pelo's gaunt face was turning black by the moment, his already dead body dying again. "Two," he answered, his lips curling in a cruel mockery of a smile. "The little girl screamed for hours, and you weren't there to rescue her, you foolish mortal – "

His rant was left unfinished as Logan cut off his head with a mighty swing of the fire sword. Wiping the blood off his sleeves, Logan exited the woods and made his way to the house.

It was an old Victorian, standing in the middle of an expanse of brown grass with patches of green. The chimney spewed smoke, and the windows on the ground floor twinkled with orange light. Mihnea had retreated inside the house, leaving behind the wooden trunk, sometime during the fight. Logan opened the trunk, just a bit, to peek inside and closed it. Somewhere a mother would be wailing for her forever lost child.

Logan ascended the steps, surprised that there were no wards. The front door opened without making any noise, revealing the first guard standing in the hallway. Urik, Logan remembered his name. Urik had a look of absolute terror on his face and his eyes kept darting between Logan and the stairs leading to the first floor, thinking whether he'd be safe upstairs.

"Nowhere to run," Logan whispered, stepping in.

Only his instincts and suspicious disposition kept him alive. The hastily erected shield, while not as powerful as one he could have produced with a wand, saved him from being flayed by a particularly gruesome curse. Before he had the time to find his opponent, two more spells, a bone breaker and an Entrails Expelling curse, struck his shield causing cracks to appear in it.

Logan let go off the shield and dived inside, throwing a bunch of ice spikes above him, towards the top of the stairs. He heard a grunt and a crash in response. He used the break in spell fire to move further into the house. A door to his right led into a kitchen and a door to his left showed him the dining area. Logan chose left. Just in time; a blasting curse took apart the door hinges, showering him in wood pieces.

The dining room had a group of high backed chairs around a long center table while a small fire burned merrily in a corner. Logan picked up a chair and threw it, right into the path of a yellow streak of light which melted it into a puddle. Across the room's threshold stood a small man, wand pointed right between Logan's eyes.

"Master says you have to die," the man said in an emotionless voice. "Jacob complies," he finished, waving his wand in a complicated pattern.

The air in the room grew cold and then vanished. Logan felt the air move out his mouth once the powerful spells washed over him; he closed his mouth. The fire in the corner died, and silence fell. Logan threw more ice spikes at Jacob but they were transfigured into flowers, which fell harmlessly against the carpet. When he tried to move towards a window, a blasting curse smashed into the floor at his feet, causing him to throw up another shield. Jacob stood at the door, not moving, taking pleasure in watching Logan turn blue from the lack of oxygen.

Logan formed another ice spear, tried to create fire, and sent a wave of ice snaking across the floor. The spear was transformed into a piece of rope, the fire didn't take, and the ice wave died halfway through. The effort of holding his breath was taking its toll on his magic. It was a chore just standing up, his limbs shook and his vision had started to blur. Through the haze spreading across his eyes, he saw Urik come and stand behind Jacob, a predatory smile on his face.

The smile faltered when Logan pulled a wand out of his inner jacket pocket. He didn't want to use the wand but there was only so much he could do, and reversing a spell which vanished air itself was beyond his capabilities without a wand. A shield simmered in front of him, capable of stopping anything but the Unforgivable Curses. Logan fell on his knees as he pointed the wand at the nearest wall and let loose a powerful blasting curse. The wall exploded in a shower of bricks. Air rushed in; sweet, life-giving air, and he breathed in deeply.

Jacob's piercing curse struck the shield, producing a gong like sound, and fizzled out. His next set of bludgeoners and bone breakers impacted against the shield, all useless. Logan stood, his legs still shaky, and decided to finish the fight and move on to important tasks. He swung his wand like a sword in a left to right arc, yelling, '_Lingchi_.'

One thousand cuts appeared on Jacob's body including his palms, causing the wizard to scream in pain and drop his wand. Urik tried to run but Logan tripped him with a jinx, followed by a tongue-tying curse, and then bound him with an_ Incarcerous _for good measure. Urik mouth was open in a silent scream when a sword of fire was driven halfway through his chest. Logan levitated Jacob's bleeding body. The man was halfway to death.

"Advice for your next life. If you ever have an enemy at your mercy as you did me, don't stand and watch on ceremony. Kill the bastard," Logan said. The green light of the killing curse filled the hallway, and Jacob fell.

Logan used a revealing charm to find Mihnea, who was in a study room. The walls were artfully cut into wooden holes filled with books and rolled parchments. A large, ornate desk sat in the middle, flanked by cushioned chairs. Mihnea sat behind the desk, writing in an old diary. He looked up when Logan entered, but made no move to run or attack.

His skin was pale, dotted with small, black spots. There wasn't much muscle on his thin frame, and the sunken skin beneath his eyes made him look like a patient in the death ward of a hospital. Years on the run seemed to be taking its toll on the vampire elder.

"You could've run," Logan said, taking an opposite chair.

"Where to?" Mihnea asked. "If you can find me here, kill my guards, you would've found me anywhere. After seeing what you did outside, I have no reservations that I can survive you. No, I have made my peace with death a long time ago. Do what you must. All I ask are two favors. One, preserve this diary. It is my history and I would like to be remembered after I am gone. Second, I would like to know the identity of my killer."

"Logan Mordet Knightbridge."

The old vampire couldn't prevent a flicker of surprise. He closed the diary and leaned back. "Mordet," he said, tasting the word. "I was under the impression the bloodline went extinct courtesy of a dark wizard at the turn of the century."

Logan shrugged. "Two children survived. They changed their names, fled to France, and forged a new empire."

"You don't sound French," Mihnea noticed.

"I was adopted into the family. As a thank you to their hospitality and love, I have decided to fulfill a promise to their ancestors. For that, my dear Mihnea, I need your help."

Mihnea laughed. "So, it was all a display of power and skill. You are a budding dark lord and want the vampires to follow you in whatever glory you choose to peruse. You are a year late; most of the vampire clans have fled to the continent. Whoever is left isn't foolish enough to go against the wizards after the last debacle."

Logan shook his head. "No. Never again will a dark lord sully the shores of this island, I am going to make sure of it. What I want from you is not your fealty but the Everbeating Heart."

"A mere legend," Mihnea scoffed. His smile didn't reach his eyes, though, forced as it was. "Passed through so many mouths that no one even remembers the truth, just tales embellished to scare the children. Voldemort asked the vampire elders the location of the fabled Everbeating Heart, you know. He also believed that it will impart immunity from magical harm. I will tell you what I told him: Vlad Dracula was burnt at the stake. His heart is nothing more than ashes mixed in with the soil of Transylvania."

"Yes, Dracula was burnt. But he wasn't the only vampire with a cursed heart, and heart can also mean someone related by blood. Like direct descendants," Logan enjoyed the look on Mihnea's face before continuing. "Why did you change your last name? Was it because you realized no one feared Irish vampires. I mean, what had they done over the centuries apart from drinking sheep blood and hiding in the caves. You would've wanted to be someone powerful, ancient, and ruthless. Pretending to be a descendant of _the_ Dracula instead of Abhartach, who was wiped from history by his enemies, certainly afforded you a high place in the vampire hierarchy. Shame. Abhartach would have had you quartered by horses for this insult to his name."

"How?"

"The Mordets were an ancient family and had a treasure trove of books on the history of these isles. Connecting the dots between some vampiric legends of the Irish and your sudden ascension was tedious but extremely rewarding."

Mihnea sighed and closed his eyes. "Father, forgive me," he muttered before launching himself across the table.

His jaw snapped shut against a stone barrier around Logan's throat. Mihnea jumped to his feet, rubbing his jaw, but couldn't move again. Logan's silent petrifying spell had struck him in the gut.

"That was unexpected," Logan groaned, twirling his wand. "Tonight has been rough; I am being overconfident, I admit. Let's end this long night on a happy note."

He conjured a deep wooden bowl. Cutting a sharp gash across Mihnea's neck, he held the wooden bowl under it. "The same cursed blood which prohibited Abhartach from doing magic also flows through your dead veins, Mihnea. It does not provide you protection from magic as you can clearly see; it just makes your blood extremely reactive to wand magic. Die happy, knowing that your blood will help me defeat those very wizards you hate so much."

Logan sealed the bowl once last drop of Mihnea's blood dripped into it. Looking around the room, he could see many texts related to blood magic, dark rituals, and some theoretical texts on necromancy. Mihnea's body lay motionless at his feet, looking peaceful.

Logan raised a hand. Flames, hungry and violent, lashed out. They consumed the desk, along with the diary, and then leaped to the curtains. With a contented sigh, Logan vanished, leaving behind a burning house.

* * *

"How long did you survive without your wand?"

Logan scowled and placed the bowl on the table. "I hope you have ordered food. I am famished."

Alvis snapped his fingers, signaling the server for their meal. "Don't divert the conversation. So, this is it?" he looked at the bowl. "The bane of British wizards. You didn't answer my question, Lo."

"Fine. I only managed until halfway through the fight. Pleased?" Logan grumbled. He realized that they were in a room full of muggles. He waved his wand and muttered a few incantations. A faint, shimmering dome sprung around them ensuring their privacy. "Mihnea had a wizard guarding him, who used some obscure spells to suck the air out of the room. I had to use the wand. But, I did kill all the other vampires with elemental magic."

"My pride for you knows no bounds," Alvis said in a dry voice. "Have you thought of the next step?"

Logan nodded. "I already have three places mapped and warded. Next target is the Department of Mysteries to get the last two locations, and I need a big diversion for that."

The server, a young woman who looked like a college student working part-time, came bearing plates laden with red meat, smoked vegetables, and fish. She ignored the bowl, enchanted to look like a potted plant, and gave Alvis a wide, flirty smile. Alvis, used to women swooning over him, simply nodded and focused on his food.

Logan couldn't help but laugh. "Must be difficult keeping away all the muggle women," he noted. Alvis was a male Veela, a rarity, especially in this part of the world. Born with an inbuilt sense of fashion, the man wore a light blue three-piece suit which highlighted his broad shoulders. His light brown hair fell past his neck but instead of making him look like a drama school reject, the curtain of hair accentuated his sharp cheekbones and turquoise eyes.

"Don't forget the men," Alvis answered. "Though they are few and far here, compared to home. How big a diversion do we need?"

"Big enough to get all the Aurors out of the ministry building for at least an hour. I am working on an infiltration plan but chances of success will increase if I don't have to face trained fighters making my way out in case I get caught."

Alvis hummed in agreement and continued eating. Logan followed. Despite what Alvis thought, Logan _was_ hungry. He had used elemental magic, which tired him faster than wand magic, and the episode with Jacob's air-vanishing spell had seeped his strength even more.

"We could stage an attack on Hogsmeade," Alvis said after a while. "It's pretty far from London, and being so close to Hogwarts where the children usually are, the response would certainly be rapid. Perhaps use a few of our dogs, set fire to a couple of empty houses at the edge of the village, and cause general mayhem. We can time it so it starts the moment you enter the DoM."

"Not a bad idea," Logan said. He pushed his empty plate away. "I was thinking. Just completing the ritual won't accomplish what we want. Eventually, they'll find a counter ritual and perform it. I plan to use their enemies to keep them busy. I want them to suffer, I want them to bleed. I don't care if the statute of secrecy is violated; by then they'd be crippled against the muggle weapons."

"Who else is there with a vendetta against the wizards? Muggles?"

Logan shook his head. "Someone whose magic is not dependent on wands. Their rights have been trodden upon for centuries, they are considered worse than second class citizens, and they are expected to dance at the whim of the wizards."

"House elves?" Alvis asked.

Logan smiled. "Think meaner, nastier, and more bloodthirsty. Think swords rather than teapots. Enchanted armor rather than tea-towels."

"Goblins," Alvis breathed.

Logan inclined his head. Goblins.

After the last wizarding war, in which most of the goblin clans sided with Voldemort, they had been treated even more poorly than before. New restrictions were imposed; few clans who had lived above ground in the forests were forced underground. Gringotts was being pressured to reimburse families who claimed to have borne the wrath of war-goblins during Voldemort's reign of terror. Relations were at an all-time low. Goblins argued that they were strong armed into helping the mad bastard, citing whole colonies that were wiped out by Death Eaters as evidence. Ministry, on the other hand, argued that they could have retreated to their impregnable underground cities or flat out refused, consequences be damned. Goblins threw back ministry's own cowardice at their faces, and after that the conversations had simply stopped.

Wizards and goblins still did business; after all, everyone loved gold. Goblins, though, were still not allowed the use of wands and the Goblin Liaison office was a joke. In turn, they refused to give the ministry access to the Death Eater vaults. In this already dangerous house of kindling, Logan planned to throw a burning matchstick.

"You didn't tell me this, before," Alvis said, his face a careful mask. Logan noticed his thin lips. Alvis had a soft spot for all magical creatures, including goblins, and his plan to use them as pawns didn't sit well with him. "Both wizards and goblins are still reeling from their population losses. Why would they go to war, again, and so soon?"

Logan drummed the table. "Because the goblins think the ire of wizards will soon fall on them, and as such, they are _already_ preparing for war. I will give goblins something they have always desired. Something which will tip the scales in their favor and cause the wizards to piss their robes and declare a national fucking emergency."

Alvis understood his meaning. He groaned. Britain was going to become a very dangerous place to live in the coming days.

**A/N: This story is set a few years after the events of the Battle of Hogwarts. Few canon events happened differently or didn't happen at all.  
I have been mapping out the story and will come back to edit (and hopefully improve) the posted chapters once I reach a certain word count. Thanks for reading. Please review.**


	4. Shadow in the Dark

**Chapter 3: Shadow in the dark**

"Harry, the snitch," the little boy shouted.

Harry widened his eyes, dramatically, and then lunged to his right, catching the snitch shaped ball centimeters above the carpet. "Gotcha!" he said, rising.

The little boy jumped in joy. "Gryffindor wins," he said. He raised his arms and ran around the dinner table in a victory lap. Harry caught him on his third round, and tickled him, making him squeal with delight.

"All right, you two," a voice said from the doorway. "Time for bed. C'mon Teddy, you can play with your godfather tomorrow."

Teddy looked at his grandmother and then at Harry with an infectious grin. "You are staying?" he asked. When Harry nodded, he continued, "You can sleep in my room. I am sure Mr. Periwinkle won't mind."

"Oh no," Harry raised his hands. "I am too afraid of Mr. Periwinkle. I have heard that stuffed wolves come alive in the middle of the night and attack anyone who dares touch their master."

Teddy laughed at his godfather's mock fear. "I will protect you, Harry. Will you read me a story?"

"Sure, I will. We wouldn't want you to have a dreamless sleep, now, do we?"

"Honestly," Andromeda Tonks said, "Nymphy was the same. She made me read her bedtime stories till she was eleven and went to Hogwarts, and the next day, she would tell how her dreams had been filled with flying bison and lemur monkeys exactly as in the books I'd read her. Go on, put him to sleep. I will be waiting for you in the sitting room."

Once Teddy was in the bed with his enchanted stuffed wolf and hugging pillows, Harry summoned one of his storybooks with the snap of his fingers. _Adventures of Biksun, the Friendly Werewolf_ slid from the shelf of books and zoomed towards Harry due to his wandless and non-verbal summoning spell. He caught it just before it collided with his head.

Teddy looked at the magic with a gleam in his green eyes, and very carefully, with his tongue between his teeth, snapped his own fingers. Or rather, tried to. It didn't make the snap sound and nothing moved. Teddy pouted. Harry laughed, his heart close to bursting with love for his godson.

"Soon, Teddy, soon," Harry ruffled his hair which was as dark and messy as Harry's.

"Which is your favorite story before sleepy time?" Teddy asked. His language skills were better than other kids his age, and Andromeda had surmised that he would be speaking properly soon. Teddy was still to display his first sign of accidental magic, excluding his metamorphic abilities, but Harry wasn't worried. The son of Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks couldn't be anything other than a great wizard.

Harry made a show of thinking, tapping his chin with a finger. He couldn't very well tell Teddy that the Dursley's allowed him to sleep only when the kitchen counters were cleaned, and the only literature he had with him under the cupboard was the back issues of the daily newspaper which Petunia collected before selling to the recyclers. Of course, she didn't do it out of her sense of duty but to make some extra pennies.

"Tales of Beedle the Bard," he finally said.

"Will you read it to me?"

"Sure," he answered, before adding in a whisper, "The children's edition, of course. Andromeda will curse me into oblivion if I even think of telling you about some of the bad stuff in there. But for now, let's see what Biksun is up to."

"I want a story of Moony and his friends," Teddy said, making puppy dog eyes at him.

Harry sighed. He had told a few of the Marauder's famous prank stories to Teddy, and they had become his favorite. He and Andromeda had shown Teddy the pictures of his parents but hadn't told him too much.

"What do you think of this? I read you this book tonight," Harry said. "Tomorrow night, you get not one but two stories of Moony. I may even tell you about the time Moony met a pink haired witch."

Teddy thought about it for a moment. He agreed, solemnly, and then snuggled close, his chubby cheeks pressed against Harry's stomach. As Harry slowly read the adventures of Biksun, who caught thieves and helped little girls cross a dark forest, Teddy closed his eyes. Harry was at halfway mark when he heard Teddy mumble his name and snore. Harry closed the book and leaned back, running his hand through Teddy's hair as he looked around the room. The pale yellow wallpaper looked like fire in the orange light of the street light coming in through the window. The wall opposite the window was Teddy's drawing board – chalk drawings of animals ran around the stick trees, while people zoomed overhead on broomsticks. One figure looked like Ginny with her ponytail flying as she raced across the wallpaper with a Quaffle clutched at her side.

Harry didn't know how long he sat there, thinking about nothing and everything, but he was pulled out of his reverie when Teddy turned on his side, thumb in his mouth. He carefully got up, turned off the light, and waved his wand in a sweeping gesture. The extra set of wards around the room were activated with a soft whoosh of magic. After checking the window manually, Harry made his way downstairs.

Andromeda was watching the television when Harry entered the sitting room. She motioned to a glass of firewhiskey on the table which he accepted gratefully. He had needed Teddy's company and a drink after the day he'd had. They sat in silence; Andromeda watching some program about aliens, and Harry lost in his thoughts about the future.

"You never told me how is it that you are off duty today and for the next two days," she said when a commercial break interrupted her television program.

"I, uh, had a slight disagreement with my superior about prisoner transport protocols," he said, wondering if he should tell her what he had called Morgenstern. The head of DMLE had certainly not appreciated being called stupid in front of the entire Auror department.

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, and her lips thinned. It was so like Professor McGonagall that Harry half-expected the witch to say _Mr. Potter_ in an exasperated manner. He chuckled. It was probably the wrong thing to do judging by her expression.

"Honest," he shrugged. "He is more interested in press meetings and seeing his name in headlines than doing actual, competent work. Now that the Dementors are gone, things must be even more strict at Azkaban, but he is more concerned about seeing his name in the paper than reviewing security measures. Half of the department wants him gone, the other half worships him. No one wants to be the first to be sacked for speaking against their pureblood superior. So, I just gave voice to what everyone was thinking," he finished, bitterly.

Harry still hadn't forgiven the wizarding world for being so submissive to the power of money. But then it wasn't only wizards, but humans worldwide. This fascination with gold had helped many suspected and some _actual_ death eaters escape punishment after the fall of Voldemort. Gold was also the reason most of the important positions, including heads of various departments in the ministry, were filled by pureblood scions – they had connections and old family money. Half-bloods and muggle-born had only their OWLs and NEWT results and those weren't worth a galleon in the corrupted labyrinth of the British Ministry of Magic.

"You can't change centuries of corruption and prejudices in a day, Harry," Andromeda noted. Considering her own family had once been at the forefront of said prejudice, Harry knew her words were true. "Our society has always been inflicted by the ideals of blood supremacy, though people only show these traits when they have the backing of a dark lord or an insane minister. Rest of the time, they go at it in subtle ways. I should know, my grandfather was an expert at these games. He would often joke that he had single-handedly ruined the lives of a hundred muggle-born and half-bloods."

"I just thought that maybe after the war, things would be different. Wizards would realize that the origin of your blood doesn't matter- "

"Harry, dark lords come and go. What remains behind is a deep-rooted network of inbred pureblood families who wait for the next disruptor so they get to celebrate their supposed superiority without the fear of reprisals."

Before Harry could reply, Andromeda cut her off. "Enough of this morbid topic. I wanted to talk to you about something else, which has been bothering me for a while."

Harry sat up straight wondering what it could be. "Is it about Teddy?"

They still had no idea if Remus's lycanthropy had infected his son or not. When Teddy had demonstrated his first metamorphic transformation, they had breathed a sigh of relief. But over time, he had developed a taste for red meat and his manner of eating was almost animalistic, not to mention his cranky behavior on the nights of the full moon.

"No," Andromeda said, switching off the television just as the program came back on. "It is about you. You and Ginny Weasley especially."

"What?" Harry became wary of the way Andromeda's eyes were shining. It was the same glint Mrs. Weasley always had whenever she talked about the upcoming marriages in the family.

"When are you going to propose to that wonderful girl, and give Teddy little Potters to play with?"

Harry snorted the drink through his nose as the liquid went down the wrong pipe. _Little Potters? _His mind immediately showed him an image of him carrying three little kids with Ginny's flaming red hair and his green eyes.

"Clean that up," Andromeda ordered. Harry flicked his wand, vanishing the whiskey off the table cloth. "Now, I have known that you are not happy with your job since that case you took last Christmas. You didn't come to see Teddy for an entire month."

Harry winced. He had not been entirely at fault. Travers and Dolohov had escaped from Azkaban, and Morgenstern had refused to assign more than two aurors on the case. His argument was that two wandless former death eaters couldn't possibly be dangerous enough to warrant a full team of six. It had taken Harry and Ron Weasley a little over three weeks to track down Travers and Dolohov.

Harry had later shown Morgenstern the vat of explosive potion that the wandless former death eaters had brewed and were planning to detonate on Platform nine-and-three quarters. Harry threatened to go to The Daily Prophet if Morgenstern ever tried to play with the lives of innocent people again. During the hunt, Harry had stayed away from Teddy, refusing to lead the madmen to his godson in the off chance they wanted to take revenge for Riddle's defeat.

"I am not blaming you, Harry," Andromeda said. "I have seen my daughter go through similar motions. What I blame you for is your absolute refusal to acknowledge that this isn't what you are supposed to do."

He was confused. "I am not sure I am following, Andy," he said. Did she mean that he wasn't doing enough?

"You have seen enough death for a lifetime, Harry," Andromeda's voice grew soft. "Don't put yourself through it, again. Don't let this thankless job come between you and the chance for a happy life. When was the last time you and Ginny had a romantic date or just a quiet dinner together without your mind being stuck on a criminal or an escaped killer?"

Harry had no answer for that. Truth be told, he himself had felt he wasn't doing enough in their relationship even though Ginny was the one who spent half the year on the road, playing and practicing with her Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies. But the danger wasn't over. There were still bigots with wands and knowledge of dark curses. How can he rest while knowing that he could make a difference?

Andromeda laid a hand on his shoulder. "Harry, you did everything you could. You saved our world, you even _sacrificed_ yourself. Every problem we have or may have in the future is not yours to solve. You are just a kid," her voice broke. "Children are not supposed to fight wars and die young while old people like I keep on living."

Harry felt something threaten to spill from the corner of his eyes. He blinked, pushing back the burning sensation. How was he supposed to console Andromeda when he himself hadn't gotten over seeing the lifeless body of Tonks or the half-sawed remains of Remus? He saw them each time Teddy smiled at him or scrunched up his nose.

Andromeda sniffed once and then cleared her throat. Her expression changed as she suppressed her emotions, letting her face become a smooth mask again. "You should consider changing jobs, Harry. I know Minerva offered you a place at Hogwarts-"

"I won't be able to see Teddy regularly," he protested, the same excuses he had given to the headmistress came tumbling out. "And who knows when the next crazy wizard decides to challenge the boy-who-lived? The kids will be in danger. I-"

His froze mid-sentence as the wards around the house alerted him of something passing through them without setting off the retaliatory measures. It couldn't be anything harmful but he wasn't taking any chances. An extra set of wards protected Teddy's room, so he was safe. A bronze shield shimmered into existence in front of him and Andromeda even before the silver blob of light came in through the window and took the form of a Jack Russell terrier.

_Harry, come to Knockturn Alley. Code Yellow. Use Leaky's Floo._

His best friend Ron Weasley's voice echoed around the room before the Patronus dissolved itself into small wisps of light and vanished.

"We will be continuing this conversation at breakfast tomorrow," Andromeda said, standing up.

Harry nodded and apparated with a soft pop of displaced air.

* * *

Harry appeared at the safe apparition spot two streets down from The Leaky Cauldron and walked rest of the way. Late night shoppers walked past the pub without so much as a second glance at its murky windows or cauldron shaped sign, which creaked in a non-existent breeze. The last time Harry had entered the pub, he had been surrounded by a frenzied mob; some asked for an autograph, a few wanted pictures, while one hag-like witch had tried to slip him a love potion. He was not looking forward to a similar experience, though, it may not be too filled at this hour.

Ron had told him to use the Leaky Cauldron Floo as the Diagon Alley Floo network would be on stasis following any incident, along with anti-apparition wards. He had decided to use the front door; it would less attention than him stumbling in through the floo.

Hannah, his former schoolmate, and currently co-owner of the pub, nodded at him. Nodding back, he crossed the room with large strides and passed through a door which led to the backyard. He tapped the bricks of the wall smartly with his wand and stepped back as the bricks realigned themselves to form the entrance arch of the Diagon Alley. It was lit with electric lamps, light from a few shops still open for business, and the large glowing mannequin of the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, visible even from the entrance.

Looking at the crooked street and its adjoining lanes, his mind jumped back to the war years when people were too afraid to come out of their houses even during the day, abandoning the lone wizarding district in central London. Of course, the threat of Voldemort and his death eaters had been high and the rebellion of the Dementors hadn't helped.

Harry quietly walked past Flourish & Blots, looking around with his eyes and magical senses for any signs of trouble. His training had increased his paranoia, as Hermione loved to point, and he reluctantly agreed. He had initially failed his 'Infiltration & Apprehend' test at the academy because of a twitchy wand hand; he had sent a full body-bind curse at a test dummy designed as a muggle.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, he thought. The end of the war had given him hope of a better future; spending time with his adopted family, hanging out with his friends, and even watching Quidditch matches at the newly built Millenium Stadium. But threats seemed to be coming out of the shadows with alarming regularity. He hadn't had a vision, thankfully, but his nights were still spent lying awake and thinking about the next danger.

The captured death eaters and dark wizards had been sent to Azkaban, waiting for a chance to escape. Somedays, Harry wondered if it was worth it to remove the Dementors as prison guards. The worst scum of the wizarding Britain was housed in the hellish prison, but its cold walls wouldn't be able to remove the ideas of pureblood supremacy from within those inbred monsters.

"Potter, sir," a loud voice yelled, "over here."

Lyndon stood at the entrance of the Knocturn Alley, waving his arms like a windmill. Harry saw a Law Enforcement wizard standing at the gates of Gringotts while another talked to one of the goblin guards. Neither looked happy. Some storefronts had people peeking out of the glass windows. One or two pointed at him as he walked past.

Lyndon tried a muggle salute and failed. Harry nodded. "Am I late?"

Lyndon's hesitation told Harry the answer.

"Is Morgenstern here, already?" Harry asked, dreading the answer. Code Yellow meant death by magical means, so it wouldn't be too out of turn for the head of DMLE to assess the damage. After the war, people expected far more from them than earlier. Harry had hoped to reach the crime scene no later than the Forensics Unit. Or perhaps earlier than Morgenstern who was bound to come sensing a chance to talk to the press. The man hardly left any opportunity to increase his "Press Portfolio" as he called it.

"The Director arrived just a minute ahead of you, sir," Lyndon said, a touch of sympathy in his voice. The whole damn department knew of the friction between them.

"…and I will never hear the end of it," he muttered, following his underling deeper into the shadowy lanes of Knockturn Alley.

The atmosphere was as different from Diagon as day and night. The cobblestoned lanes, numerous potholes decorating them like ornaments on a Christmas tree, looked like sleeping snakes, and the street lamps were mostly broken. Whichever remained wasn't giving enough light to show the dried blood on the walls. Most of the shops were boarded, ministry fliers proclaiming them as having been confiscated by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The air was stale and carried a smell which Harry always associated with carcasses. Something prickled on the back of his neck and his wand appeared in his right hand in a fluid motion. Even when surrounded by people he knew and trusted, his instincts were screaming at him to be prepared.

Sandwiched between an apothecary and a boarded-up rental place was a tall shop. Its entire front portion was destroyed, including the sign which read Pelowski Elixirs. A piece of wooden support beam gave way, before Harry's very eyes, and was caught in mid-air by a red-haired auror standing at the door. Despite himself, Harry smiled at a memory of Hermione clearly pronouncing 'LeviOsa' to an irritated Ronald Weasley.

"Hey, mate. Do you need a hand?" Harry asked, tapping the auror on the shoulder.

Ron smiled, shaking his head, and lowered the beam gently to the ground. "Right on time, I see," he said, giving Harry a pat on the back. He lowered his voice. "Undesirable No. 1 is inside, talking to a bloke from the Goblin Liaison Office. He is in a bad mood."

"Maybe I can summon a few reporters," Harry mumbled. "That always puts a smile on his face."

Ron chuckled. "Teddy?" he asked.

"Asleep. Andy indicated that I should not disturb them once I return," Harry said. Ron winced. While Andromeda understood the work Harry did, she never took it kindly when it interfered with Teddy's time with Harry. "So what do we have here? And why is GLO involved?"

"Big explosion," Ron said, splaying his fingers wide as if to emphasize his point. "They felt the tremors all the way over in Diagon. Four bodies, including a goblin, shredded to pieces. There are signs of a magical fight."

Bollocks. "What happened?" Harry asked. The presence of a dead goblin could complicate things. The little buggers were already looking for a chance to start another war if the informants were to be believed.

"Don't know, mate. We reckon they had a disagreement about some bet, and the wizards refused to pay, calling the goblin a cheater. From what the hag told us, who caught a stray stunner almost at the beginning of the altercation, one of the wizards pulled out his wand and tried to kill the goblin," Ron made a face. "Everybody knows the goblins play dirty. Not very smart to come between a goblin and his gold. Remember Ludo Bagman?"

Harry recalled the news article of a few months after the war. DMLE had found the butchered remains of Bagman strung from a telephone pole in Norfolk. The retired head of Magical Games & Sports had a small funeral. Daily Prophet had sent reporters to harass the family but they had backed off when Bagman's replacement had threatened to curse the lot of them.

"Witnesses?" Harry asked as he walked inside, followed by Ron. Lyndon took a step, then thought the better of it, and stayed at the door.

The bar reminded Harry of the Hog's Head. Glass on the windows was coated with a layer of grime, the wooden floor looked as if touching it with bare hands would give him some incurable disease, and the lanterns hanging from the ceiling cast a dim light. He wondered if Pelowski's elixirs were worth stepping foot inside; there were, after all, better drinking establishments elsewhere in Knockturn Alley.

There was a small crater in the floor, and it was filled with broken pieces of furniture and glass. The wall on the left, nearest to the crater, had collapsed along with a portion of the ceiling, and he could see the insides of the apothecary next door. A haggard-looking wizard sat on a bar stool muttering something to a red-robed auror whose charmed quill was recording everything on a parchment. Morgenstern, in expensive robes, was standing next to an old wizard with straw-colored hair. Morgenstern glared at them as if they had interrupted some important discussion.

"Just the hag, whose memories we collected, and a wizard who had passed out from drinking even before the goblins came. Apparently, he slept through the entire thing. The barkeep was blown to bits in the explosion," Ron said.

Two of the dead wizards were slumped over broken chairs, their bodies bloody and horribly mangled. A short figure, the goblin, lay on his back. His mouth was open in a silent scream, his clothes in tatters from the curse which had ended his life. Harry saw legs sticking out from under the broken table – the barkeep. The air around the bodies was saturated with magical discharge, but it was of a kind Harry had never encountered before. It wasn't Dark Magic, yet it felt menacing.

Harry walked around the crater, eyes closed and wand held high, and muttered the magic revealing charm he had learned from Dumbledore.

_"libera porro luminance veneficia!"_

As he finished the incantation with a flick of his wand, white tendrils of light escaped his wand and coalesced in the crater. The light moved like smoke, twisting, and turning, and formed multiple shapes which vanished just as quickly. In the end, a sphere with drops of red in it was formed, followed by a raven which flew straight up and a vaguely humanoid shape which looked like a goblin.

"What in Merlin's name is that?" Ron asked. He had been watching Harry.

"Looks like a goblin. On steroids," he answered. Seeing Ron's confused look, he elaborated. "Muggle athletes use steroids which are basically potions in pill form to enhance their size, strength, and abilities."

"He does look as if someone had force-fed a goblin all the food in Hogwart's kitchens in one go. What about the sphere and the bird?"

Harry thought about it a bit. "The sphere is an explosive curse, probably responsible for most of the damage. The raven in flight could either signify apparition magic or some sort of concealment spell, I am not sure. It's not like there is a reference book for this spell."

Both looked at each other and smiled, knowing full well what would have happened if their friend Hermione had been there. She would have announced that she was off to the library to find the book.

The initial shapes had told Harry roughly how the fight had gone. The wizards had started with stunning spells and then moved on to cutting curses. The goblin had used some form of shield and responded with something blunt, yet magical, which had caused the destruction of their table. The wizards must have replied with an explosive curse, though its essence seemed foreign to him.

"Let's hear the barkeep's statement again," Harry said reluctantly. Morgenstern looked ready to pop a vein. Harry had forgotten, conveniently, to acknowledge his superior. "Maybe, we missed something the first time." He'd have to watch the hag's memories to piece together the fight and find a way to stop the goblins from crying foul.

As he stepped past the crater, his eyes were pulled upwards by a hint of light at the periphery of his vision. The bird hadn't escaped through the ceiling as Harry had assumed, instead, it had turned and fled towards the adjoining building, leaving behind a stream, not unlike airplane contrails.

Harry swore. He turned around and ran, jumping over the debris lining the hole in the wall. He heard shouts behind him but he paid them no heed. There might be another wizard and he had escaped through the hole. Harry dashed past the surprised proprietor of the apothecary, into a back room, and out into a narrow alley, his eyes never leaving the faint glow of his magic. He heard footsteps behind him. Ron.

"One of them is still alive," he said, as he slowed a bit. "He could be hurt or not, but definitely dangerous."

Ron understood and raised his wand in the manner taught at the academy – ready to attack and defend at the same time.

They sneaked down another lane which was filled with shops dedicated to selling charmed objects. Harry stopped at the mouth of a side alley which had nothing but a mound of garbage and a stack of crates at the far end. He saw a shadow, different than the natural darkness, behind the stacks, trying to make itself as small as possible.

Harry pointed at it with his wand. Ron took a step to the right and crouched down. They would take it from two different angles. Once his wand tip started glowing red, Ron nodded.

Harry swung his wand in a wide arc, and the wooden crates flew into the air. The shadow fell back in surprise and tried to run. Ron's stunner hit it dead center but seemed to have little to no effect. A sickly yellow spell was fired in response and it fizzled against the bronze shield in front of Ron.

"Thanks, mate," Ron breathed, sending a body bind curse which was deflected into the wall. Harry dropped the crates back, transfiguring them into horned mice. A magical fire erupted from the shadow and the mice turned to ash in the blink of an eye. The flash of fire, however, was enough for a momentary look at their quarry. Long, hooked nose and pointed ear atop a domed head, thin limbs wrapped in dirty clothes held a dark brown wand.

Ron brandished his wand like a whip and thick black ropes flew at the shadow. At the same time, Harry sent a pale green light at the brick wall behind the shadow.

The ropes were burned to ash with more spell fire but the shadow had missed Harry's spell. The bricks shivered for a moment before exploding outwards like cannon shells. The shadow was hit on the shoulder and head, and it stumbled forward like a drunk before passing out.

"_Lumos._"

Ron illuminated the alley and froze. Harry, dread already building in his stomach from the moment he had glimpsed the shadow's features, just stood there, gaping.

The person they had been fighting was no bigger than a Hogwarts first year. It had crusty brown skin, and its hair was matted with mud. The dark, slanted eyes were closed but the mouth was open, revealing small, pointed teeth. Its thin body was covered in grey clothes but there was no mistaking the creature. Harry had just seen a similar creature back in the pub.

It was a goblin.

A goblin who had been using a wand.

* * *

**A/N:** I used an online translator for the new spells, so please excuse any mistakes in the Latin translation.

**Spells:**

_libera porro luminance veneficia_ – reveals the essence of recently used magic  
_lingchi_ – makes a thousand painful cuts on the target's body (used in the previous chapter)


	5. Goblins

**Chapter 4: Goblins**

Hermione Granger walked swiftly across the atrium and slid to a stop in front of the bank of lifts. It was only seven am yet she was running late for an emergency meeting. A witch in purple robes huffed at her unprofessional display but Hermione just shrugged and entered the first lift which opened. She was way past worrying about manners, especially when a war with the goblins loomed on the horizon.

At first, she had thought Ron was exaggerating. There was no way the ministry would risk an economic collapse by alienating the goblins. But she also remembered feeling thunderstruck when Ron told her about the wand and Morgenstern's reaction. The ministry and wizarding population, in general, were suffering from itchy-wand fingers ever since the war. The Vampire Extermination Committee and the insane budget poured into it was a proof. She wouldn't put it past the old coots in the Wizengamot to declare the goblins as the new enemies.

As last night's conversation replayed in her mind, she wondered about their collective bad luck. Their childhood was spent trying to survive Voldemort, forcing them to grow up too soon. Some of her friends were still in mourning of the losses, and now this new menace. She clutched her notes folder tight against her as if it were a shield against grief and misery. At least there'd be one friendly face at the meeting.

The lift clattered to a stop on level four – Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She walked past the empty cubicles towards her office at the end of the hall. No one from her team was in yet; it was too early.

She placed her files on her desk and picked up the office memos from the IN tray. The office wasn't overly decorated; a file drawer against the left wall, a potted plant against the opposite stood beneath framed photographs showing Hermione's family, friends, and her time at Hogwarts courtesy of Colin Creevey. Ron winked at her from one of the pictures and then proceeded to scratch his nose. She stifled a laugh as she read the fourth memo (a report of a werewolf altercation in Newcastle). There was a swishing sound and a paper plane zoomed inside her office. It hit her head and floated down to the table.

_Meeting in the Auror office._

Recognizing her immediate superior's handwriting, she dropped the memo and ran outside. After passing half the cubicles, she remembered her file and had to sprint back. Her lumbered breathing caused her to berate herself for not taking better care of her health. She blamed it on too much paperwork and vowed (third time in the week?) to start doing the morning runs she had promised her mum.

As she exited the lift on the second level, she saw her boss, Terence Wright, standing near Harry's office talking to Randolph Danes, the head of Office for House-Elf Relocation.

Terence Wright had been the head of Being Division, one of the three divisions in the department, for over a decade. He was replaced by a death eater during Voldemort's reign, went into hiding, came back after Voldemort's fall, and resumed his duties as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His tiny eyes, set in a round bulbous face, were alert even if his demeanor was of a laid back person.

Wright and Danes nodded at her as she approached.

"The entire division is to work with GLO until this crisis is averted," Wright said in a deep voice.

"Which means my counter-proposal will be placed on hold," Hermione muttered darkly.

She understood the emergency of the situation but who would explain it to the werewolves waiting for some good news on the Werewolf Employment Law she had been working on for the past year. Due to the terrible state of Werewolf Support Services, Hermione was made its head after the war. It was during the period when the wizarding world seemed ready to throw the world at the feet of the Golden Trio. She had no resentments other than that she hadn't demanded more, they had been too busy supporting each other.

She'd handpicked half a dozen intelligent and interested witches and wizards (mostly Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs) and set about bringing a change to the lives of those affected by Lycanthropy. It went as well as a typical lecture on Blast-ended Skrewts by Hagrid.

The wizarding society of Britain was changing. Some, not all, people who were disillusioned by the pure-blood rhetoric during the war were coming around, making life easier for muggle-born like her. Yet, convincing them that the werewolves also deserved a second chance was like pulling teeth – while the patient was conscious and trying to sing.

It also didn't help that the Wizengamot, the final authority on passing any magical laws in Britain and the isles, was made up of rich pure-bloods who despite having narrowly avoided Azkaban thanks to their gold still hadn't let go of their superiority complex. They always threw Fenrir Greyback's attacks on Hogwarts children at her face, effectively ignoring her pleas that she was doing it for _those_ same children who would now be subjected to the prejudices associated with being werewolves.

"I am sorry," Wright said. "This takes precedence. I am to submit a report to the Wizengamot by tomorrow. I want you to work on it." He shook his head as Hermione opened her mouth to protest. "I know Boyle should be the choice given that he heads GLO, but just between us, he only joined because someone had told him that working with Gringotts would mean a chance to get his hands on free gold."

Hermione suppressed her snort with some effort. She had always thought there was something wrong with the head of the Goblin Liaison Office.

"You are also one of the very few people inside the ministry who have some sway over the Head Auror. Potter will not hide information from you, unlike Morgenstern. From what I heard about your school years, he is also likely to listen to your advice without dismissing it beforehand, again unlike Morgenstern."

Hermione understood. "On one condition. I want you to convince the Wizengamot members friendly with your family to vote yes on my counter-proposal."

Danes gasped at the blatant blackmail. Hermione didn't care. Wright raised an eyebrow. "That's a big ask, Ms. Granger. You know, I can simply order you as well instead of requesting."

She did know so she kept quiet.

"Very well," he continued after a while. "You have my word. I won't make any promises but I shall try my utmost." Behind Wright, the head of the House-Elf office gave her a thumbs-up on a skillful negotiation.

The door to Harry's office opened. Castor Boyle walked out, deep in discussion with Harry and a thin man with straw-like blond hair whom Hermione had seen a few times around the Goblin Liaison Office. Boyle, shoulder-length hair and a pallid face, looked nervous, not unlike a man who was suddenly thrust into the limelight and didn't know which way to face. They all started toward the main meeting room.

Harry smiled at her. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and disheveled hair. More so than usual. From his crumpled robes and five o'clock stubble, she could tell that he hadn't gone home for the night.

"Did you sleep at all?" Hermione asked.

"If convincing the goblins to let us take the corpse of one of their own while trying our best to not feel intimidated by their sword waving is called sleep, then yes. Otherwise no," Harry said, rubbing his face. "Where is Ron? I was waiting for him to start interrogation of the one we captured."

"Molly wasn't feeling well," Hermione whispered. "You haven't talked to the goblin yet? What about his memories?"

Harry slowed down a bit, creating some distance between them and the others. "I spent half of the night arguing with Gringotts lawyers that we have the authority to extract memories under the new laws. By the time I was done, Morgenstern called me into a floo meeting with the minister," he said. He further lowered his voice. "The minister is losing support with the pureblood lobby in the Wizengamot due to his pro-muggle policies. He wants to avoid a confrontation with the goblins at all costs. A goblin representative from Gringotts has to be present when we interrogate the suspect or view his memories."

Hermione chewed her lip. While he supported equal rights for all magical beings, goblins were far too shrewd and could use the leeway given by the ministry to further their own agenda.

"He's an idiot," Harry mumbled.

"Who?"

Harry motioned towards Boyle who walked in front of them, whispering something in Terence's ear. "He asked me if we could just hand over the goblin to Gringotts and sweep the issue under the rug. Something about angry goblins and gold."

Hermione shook her head. How had that man become the head of GLO? She didn't know much about Boyle but suspected pureblood heritage and a vault full of gold. They reached the main conference room for the Aurors and filed inside

On one of the cushioned chairs around the round table sat a man with parchment-like skin and a haughty expression. Morgenstern, head of DMLE, was reading the Daily Prophet, and judging from his expression, he didn't like what he read. Another man, most likely a senior Auror, looked at them with open hostility as they entered. When they took the vacant chairs, Harry sitting next to her opposite Boyle, Morgenstern threw the paper on the table.

"Well, the kneazle is out of the cage," he spat. "They got their hands on the pictures. Some loon from the Investigation Department must have buckled for a few galleons."

Hermione couldn't tell if he was angry with the leak or the fact that the Prophet didn't contact him for information. She glanced at the front page. The picture was a blow-up of the destroyed pub, with the dead goblin lying in the center. "People will panic," she said.

"This has the potential of spiraling out of control," Wright said, pulling the paper towards him. "Rumors will fly and people will believe anything and everything if we don't have answers for them as soon as possible. Can you apply some pressure and make sure the Prophet doesn't print any more news without our permission?"

Morgenstern brightened a bit, perhaps on the prospect of talking to the press. "I will talk to the editor. So, this meeting is regarding the events which happened late last night. I assume all of you know of it by now. For those who do not, a goblin was found in possession of a wand and he had used it to kill two wizards."

Randolph muttered something incomprehensible. Wizarding sensibilities balked at the idea of anyone other than themselves using wands, Hermione mused darkly.

"Granted the two wizards were of reputable nature, one of them had just completed a six-month stint in Azkaban, but their death at the hands of a goblin is worrisome. We have had cases of goblins with stolen wands but the most they had could do was create some sparks. This case is serious as the goblin was doing proper magic.

"As you can imagine, Gringotts is not happy that we have a goblin in custody, no matter if the said goblin is a killer and violated the terms of the Wand Ban. While the Auror department will lead the investigation, the minister has instructed us to work closely with you. Your main job will be to find everything there is about goblin wand magic and keep the goblins pacified. Minister is hoping that this would turn out to be a singular event, and then we can all go back to our lives. Potter and his team will lead the investigation. Who is in from your side?"

Wright cleared his throat. "Hermione Granger. She will handle this on our department's behalf, interacting with your people, and reporting directly to me."

Harry patted Hermione once on the shoulder and winked. She could feel Boyle's eyes burning a hole in the side of her head. For her part, she just stared at Wright, who smirked at her, with a hard look in her eyes. She hoped she wouldn't have to voice the message – I will do this but you had better get my proposal passed.

Morgenstern gave Hermione an odd look, and then his eyes moved to Harry. "Very well. Potter, enlighten our new teammates on the events since last night," he said. Hermione didn't miss the contempt in his voice. The man really hated Harry.

Harry sighed and sat up straight. "So, what we have so far isn't too much. We are not sure if it was a lone goblin who stole the wand from someone or if there are more of them out there. Is someone supplying the goblins wands in the hope of creating chaos, or have they finally discovered the secrets of wand lore? The wand in question is being examined by an expert in the hopes that we'd know where it came from or whom it belongs to. In the meantime, anything you can tell us right now about goblins would be useful. We don't know much beyond what we see in Gringotts," Harry said, ignoring Hermione's frown. If only he had paid more attention in History of Magic.

"We know some of them can perform minor wandless spells but no goblin has used a wand since the ban," Morgenstern butted in. "So, that would be part of your task. I don't care if it is a throwaway reference to some goblin levitating a stone with a wand, I want it cataloged. We talked with Gringotts officials and they assured us that the goblin in question will be suitably punished by them even if he falls outside their purview. What does that even mean? The official wasn't too forthcoming."

"Mr. Gregor, here, is the official spokesperson for the ministry in Gringotts and our resident expert on all things goblin," Wright said, nodding to the blonde man.

Gregor glanced at Boyle and, after getting a stiff nod, stood up. Wright frowned at him causing him to sit back down. He unnecessarily smoothed the front of his robes.

"I, uh, I should start by explaining about the clans," he began in a hesitant manner. Upon seeing confused looks, he opened his notes. A page slipped and fell to the floor. Harry summoned it back to the table. Gregor started reading from the notes. "Uh, there are three main clans of goblins in Britain."

He waved his wand, muttering a spell, and the image of a goblin popped up on the table

"The goblins from the Gringotts clan are responsible for our economy, including minting the coins as well as running the bank," Gregor said pointing at the image. The goblin looked no different than the dozens of others Hermione had seen in Gringotts. "They are also the dominant clan. They are generally unpleasant and only worry about gold and their bank's reputation. They have magic, as you all may have seen, but its secrets are closely guarded. We have compiled a list of all the magical spells wizards have seen them perform over the years, but they are never seen with wands."

"What about those ugly things standing guard at the bank gate with spears and swords?" the senior Auror asked. "They are taller than the ones inside." A few people nodded as they recalled the intimidating looks of the guards.

"They would be the Stonekiller clan," Gregor answered. The image changed. The goblin, in the suit and a monocle, was replaced by a snarling creature in armor brandishing a long spear. It had brown skin and slanting eyes, and he looked more menacing than all the goblins Hermione had ever seen. "They are the workers and warriors, mainly employed for protection, debt-collection, mining, and other menial tasks. They have no magic to speak of, but have magic resistant hide," Gregor said.

He continued. "Last is the Metalsinger clan, and they are very reclusive. They hardly ever come to the surface, preferring to stay underground. They are the ones with true magic, though not the kind we do, mostly enchantments, using rituals and runes for their craft. I have only met one Metalsinger in my eight years of service and even then, the goblin hardly spoke more than two lines. Most of the wizard family heirlooms, such as rings, lockets, or pendants, are made by them."

The Metalsinger goblin looked smaller than the others, his skin was wispy and frail. He wore a tunic with trousers and bore a peaceful expression.

Gregor opened the last page, his neck bobbing up once, and then closed his file, shaking his head. Hermione wondered what was on the last page.

"The killer must be from the Stonekiller clan, then," Harry said. "He has similar features. Anything else?"

Gregor shrugged. "This is all I wrote just a while ago off the top of my head. I didn't have time to prepare much. If you want, I can share my official notes but they won't be much help as I have taken certain oaths."

"Do that, anyways," Morgenstern said. He turned to look at everyone else. "You all understand the importance of this case. So, treat it as such. I expect daily progress reports at my desk, Potter."

Harry nodded, his lips tight. Morgenstern stood up, the meeting was over.

As people filed out of the room, complaining about not enough sleep or empty stomachs, Harry caught Gregor by the arm and pulled him towards a corner. Hermione joined them, noticing the ugly expression on Boyle's face. Wright stood up and walked out, Boyle walking behind meekly.

"All right, out with it. What is it that your boss doesn't want us to know?" Harry said, perhaps a bit harshly.

Gregor winced. Hermione cleared her throat, throwing Harry a stare which meant stay-silent-and-let-me-talk, and smiled at Gregor.

"We noticed you didn't read the last page of your notes," she said, keeping her tone polite. She was impressed that Harry had noticed, the Auror training had really beaten his unobservant nature out of him. "Mind telling us, what's in there?"

Gregor's eyes jumped at her. "Well, um, nothing important, I assure you," he said. "An obscure piece of lore recovered from the ruins of a goblin colony beneath the York moors."

When he noticed that both Harry and Hermione were eagerly waiting for him to continue, he did. "Mr. Boyle thinks it is just folklore but I, uh, I remembered seeing the statue of a fierce goblin, five feet tall, in one of the Gringotts corridors when I first started. This folklore talks about the same type of goblins. They are called Hobgoblins."

Hermione closed her eyes and mentally went through all the lectures Binn, the ghostly professor of History at Hogwarts, had given on goblin rebellions. He had never mentioned Hobgoblins. "What are they?"

Gregor patted at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Possibly another clan, one that was either killed or chased out of Britain centuries ago. Most historians, as well as many goblins, consider them a myth. I didn't find any mention of them in the ministry records, and when I asked my goblin counterpart, he just laughed at me, calling me _unworthy_."

"What made you think of them?" Harry asked.

"They were as good at wand magic as humans," Gregor said. "If you believe the goblin folklore, at least. The storybook we found mentioned Hobgoblins interacting with wizards as equals, fighting against them and winning. It even has pictures of them using terrible magic with their wands."

"Can I see the book?" Hermione asked. Even if these Hobgoblins were never heard of in the modern era, it didn't mean they never existed. Folklore and mythology often had their seeds in history. The tale of the three brothers was a prime example of it.

"It's not a book as much a loose collection of papyrus pages, written in red ink. I can give you the translated text as the original is in Gobkatish. Uh, it's what we call Gobbledegook, their language. That's not really a word actually. The goblins hate us wizards for calling their language that."

Harry looked at his watch. "Send it to my office as soon as you can," he said. "Oh, and I want you near Interrogation Chamber four in ten minutes. I have to ask some questions to a goblin and I don't want to miss anything in case he speaks in, um, Gobkateesh."

Gregor nodded and left, wringing his hands together. Harry turned to Hermione. "The lawyer should be here in a few minutes. Want to join in?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. Then she remembered that Harry hadn't gone home since the incident. 'But first, let's put some food in you."

* * *

Harry whined about the taste of coffee which Hermione's assistant brought, but she didn't listen. She forced him to eat a vegetable sandwich as well, practically threatening to hex him if he didn't eat the cucumber pieces. Ron floo called her and said that he'd soon be there after talking to the Healer assigned to Mrs. Weasley at St. Mungo's.

"They are going to try a new approach," she said, as they walked to the interrogation rooms.

Harry started. Hermione knew he hadn't visited Mrs. Weasley for a week now, Ron had told her. Just like with Sirius, he felt guilty for what happened to the woman who was no less than a mother to him. Harry seemed to read her train of thought.

"It's been a little busy at the moment," he mumbled. "The last case was a headache, not to mention the internal investigation into Sebastian, who by the way is as guilty as they come. I had to take Teddy to that muggle doctor for his blood checkup…"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted him. "I am not accusing you of abandoning Molly. I just wanted to share the news, that's all. The Healer thinks a variant of the memory altering spell could be used to pluck out the specific dreams triggered by the Nightmare curse."

The curse which affected its victims even during waking hours had been cast by Voldemort himself. In front of the entire Weasley family who could do nothing more than stand as mute spectators under the Death Eaters' spells. For long Molly had been wrecked by horrible nightmares at random – she could be doing something as normal as washing dishes and a single moment of zoning out, letting her mind wander to trivial things would trigger a nightmare. She put up a brave face for her family but the cracks in her psyche were widening. It was impacting everyone. The few times Molly felt her normal self – talking about the upcoming weddings in the family or the arrival of new Weasleys – were marred by the realization that these wouldn't last. At least, now the Healers had succeeded in restraining the curse such that it only triggered the nightmares during sleep. Harry was as much guilty of that night as Hermione was. Both had been trying to break into the Lestrange Manor when Voldemort struck that terrible blow.

"It is an interesting approach," Harry said, finally. He turned a corner and entered the hallway which led to the interrogation rooms. "It would be easier I guess if they had access to an accomplished Legilimens. My own approach is more like a Hippogriff in a tea store but someone like Dumbledore could have done it."

Hermione hesitated. "Perhaps we could –"

"No," Harry's voice was suddenly loud. "I am not letting him anywhere near Molly's mind. Don't argue on this, Hermione. You know as well as I do that Ron wouldn't also agree to it."

"Even if it could be the only way?" Why were they being so thick-headed? She supposed she could understand their reasons but hadn't Dumbledore believed in second chances? Hadn't _they_ given another chance to a lot of people after the war? "You forgave Malfoy," she said, trying to keep the accusatory tone out of her words.

"I forgave Draco because he helped me destroy a Horcrux _and_ willingly gave up the location of her aunt. I didn't just up and forgave the other Malfoys. They only escaped using their gold and political influence."

"All I am saying is…" Hermione stopped talking as a door opened and an Auror from Harry's team poked his head out.

Lyndon closed the door softly behind him. "The representative from Gringotts is here, sir. He says he is in a hurry and that we should speed things up."

"Bloody hypocrites," Harry muttered, entering the room.

A wispy haired goblin with white sideburns in a grey pinstriped suit and a monocle stood by the far wall, looking more like a pissed off banker than anything else. He is a banker, Hermione corrected her thoughts, as she compared his features to the image of a Gringotts clan goblin. He had a thin case filled with papers laid out on the table. Gregor stood in a corner.

"I will make this very short, Head Auror," the goblin said in a flat voice. "My name is Farnok and I am here on behalf of Gringotts. We will allow you to interrogate the criminal using Veritaserum, but I shall be present and override any question which I feel could threaten the sovereignty of the goblin nation. Also, we can't allow you to extract his memories as that could pose a serious threat to the secrets which we hold dear and which this criminal could be privy to. Once the interrogation is completed, he shall be handed over to Gringotts."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but Farnok held up a wrinkled hand. "There will be no arguments on this. We already have the approval from your minister, here," he said, handing over a paper to Harry.

Hermione read it over Harry's shoulder. It seemed Scrimgeour wasn't taking any chances and bending over backward to appease the goblins. She couldn't really blame him; there were far too many problems facing wizarding Britain before they could even think of tussling it out with the people who managed their economy.

Harry, however, was not thinking of the same lines. "How much gold did you pay the-"

Hermione stomped on his feet before he could land in trouble for accusing the minister of magic of bribery. Harry frowned at her but dropped his line of questioning. "Can we go ahead, now? Or do you have another list of pre-approved demands?"

Farnok looked inordinately pleased with himself as he shook his head. Harry lead the way to the adjoining room where the goblin who had been captured with the wand was held in heavy chains. He was either asleep or held under a spell; Hermione wasn't sure. His clothes were dirty and his shirt had what looked like dried blood on it. She shivered despite herself; was it his or the wizards'? A threadbare quilt was rolled in one corner. Other than that, the room was bare without even a single window.

Harry waved his wand, and the goblin opened his eyes. He looked around for a moment, his eyes immediately adjusting to the low light of the chamber, and bared his teeth in a snarl. Gregor stumbled back, colliding into Lyndon.

"There is no need for that. We are not here to hurt you," Harry said in a calm voice. He conjured straight-backed wooden chairs for everyone, including the goblins. Another wave of his wand and the chains released. Once the captured goblin sat on the chair, Harry continued. "What is your name?"

"Nggrat," the goblin said, glaring at the lawyer as if his presence was a personal insult to him. "Why is he here?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "He is your lawyer," he said. "Would you prefer he leave?"

Farnok jumped up from his chair. "I am afraid that can't happen, Head Auror," he said, shaking his head which made his ear flap like a house-elves though mentioning that would have caused a battle. "Nggrat is a member of the goblin nation and since Gringotts is its official ambassador, my presence is mandatory, even if he were to feel otherwise."

Nggrat mumbled something which sounded like 'gold-digging dung-eater' to Hermione. Apparently, there was little love lost between the goblin clans. She made a mental note to ask Gregor about the relations between different clans.

"He will not interrupt," he told Nggrat, giving Farnok a pointed look. "Now, where did you get the wand from?"

Nggrat looked at Harry for a moment and then burst out laughing. "Why would I answer you, a dumb wizard who thinks he is better than everybody else?"

"For one, I do not think that. Second, either you answer me of your own volition or we feed you a truth potion and hear you sing."

"Your human potions will not work on me," Nggrat said, his eyes narrowing in anger.

"We'll see about that," Harry muttered. He produced a vial from the inside pocket of his robe and uncorked it. The few drops of clear potion twinkled even in the dim light. He thrust the vial forward. "Drink this and prove me wrong, or I petrify you and shove this down your throat."

Nggrat scowled but drank the potion. For a moment, his expression didn't change and then a cruel smile lit up his face. "I told you, you stupi-" he cut himself off as his eyes glazed over and his body relaxed.

"Well, then," Harry clapped his hands, looking back at Lyndon who produced a quill and parchment from his robes and stood poised to take notes. "Who are you, and what was the name of your friend who died in the pub?"

Nggrat's neck muscles twitched for a moment before he opened his mouth. "I am a blacksmith from Folkestone. My friend's name was Dolrat."

Harry nodded. He pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and studied it. "Some questions I wanted to ask; didn't want to forget anything," he told Hermione, shrugging his shoulders. She nodded in approval.

"So, where did you get the wand?" Harry asked, coming straight to the point. To her left, Hermione saw Farnok leaning forward a little, interested.

"It was a gift from Urkus, the mighty. He gave them to only those who were his most loyal. I am one of them. It is my destiny to serve my lord."

Hermione flinched a little; the words were a little too close to what most death eaters babbled about under the effects of Veritaserum. But she didn't miss the slight widening of Farnok's eyes and the little tremble of his mouth. "Who is Urkus," she asked before Harry could ask the same. "Why did you call him 'mighty'?" She was looking at Nggrat but kept an eye on Farnok to gauze his reaction to the question she had asked.

"He is the leader of the glorious revolution which will-"

"Anarchist" Farnok yelled, pointing a finger at Nggrat. "That's who Urkus is, and the reason he was banished from the British Isles."

Harry turned his attention to the lawyer. "What did he do?"

Farnok was silent for a moment, perhaps wondering how much to reveal. Finally, he sighed. "Urkus tried to kill a Gringotts elder, and when he failed, he rallied a few Stonekiller insects and asked for increased representation in the governance."

"Equal representation," Nggrat said pleasantly. "We are given only two seats in the council and even those belong to goblins bought by Gringotts."

Hermione was fascinated. It seemed there was more to the inner working of goblins than she had ever imagined. She wondered why Gregor hadn't informed them, but then she recalled that he'd have had to take blood oaths before working with the goblins. No way the goblins would leave any loopholes in the wording of the oaths which could be exploited to reveal their secrets to the outside world.

"As interesting as this is," Harry said, raising his voice, "I want to know why Urkus gave you the wand and where did he get it from. Did he order you to kill another elder or perhaps some wizards?"

Nggrat blinked. "He simply told us to familiarize ourselves with the wands, and that he'd call on us when the time comes, and it is obvious that he got the wands from the Lords of Fire & Stone. No, sadly, he didn't order me to kill anyone. I am eagerly waiting for that moment. Those wizards were simply irritating and tried to cheat us, and when we called them out they tried to kill us."

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine. Nggrat was talking in plurals. _Wands_. What in the name of Merlin was going on? Was there going to be a goblin civil war?

Fanrok wasn't faring any better. His mouth twitched, a sign of nerves she believed, and he tapped his foot on the ground in an uneven rhythm. "I think that is enough, Head Auror," he said, standing up. "This insect has given you as much information as he could which will help you in closing this matter as a simple case of bad luck for the wizards. Urkus is our problem and we will handle with him. Now, the Goblin Council will decide what to do to him for his crimes." He grabbed Nggrat's arm and pulled him to the door.

"Wait," Harry said. "Don't you want to know the location of this Urkus? By the time you will reach Gringotts, the effects of Veritaserum will have worn off."

Farnok opened the door and cruelly shoved Nggrat through it. He turned around with a sharp smile on his face. "We have our own ways of getting to the truth, Head Auror."

Harry shook his head once the goblin was gone. "Gregor, I need that storybook sooner than possible and get me all your notes on goblins. I don't care if it is only a single page. Lyndon, get in touch with the Records department and get me any books or scrolls the ministry has on goblins and their inner politics. I want all this on my desk by afternoon."

Lyndon and Gregor nodded and left.

Harry ran a hand over his tired face. "Bloody hell. Why did the wizards had to go and hand over their gold to the one race they have had dozens of bloody wars with? It's like the wizards try extra hard to be stupid."

Hermione snorted. Harry wouldn't get any beef from her for calling wizards stupid, but she just wanted to inform him of the truth. "Harry, we didn't hand over anything to the goblins. They already had access to the gold and other precious metals, and they were greedy enough that they started demanding that the gold which Wizards already had be returned to them. More than half of the wars were for territory rich in precious metals. Wizards weren't any better. They broke many treaties, hunted goblins, and stole whatever gold they could. In the end, a compromise was reached and our current economy is the result of that."

Harry looked at him like he used to whenever she berated him and Ron for sleeping in History of Magic class. "I don't remember Binns ever talking about it. Granted, I was asleep for most of his classes," he added hurriedly. "But I am sure I would have remembered hearing him say such things."

"He didn't," Hermione said, walking out. "I just read between the lines. Even the books in Hogwarts library were eschewed in the favor of wizards, not surprisingly as wizards wrote them. It makes me wonder what goblins teach their children about history. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could get access to their books and records?"

Harry's mouth had fallen open. "Only you would find the idea of reading a bloody goblin history wonderful. Only you, Hermione."


End file.
